


Screenshots of Youth

by VibrantVenus



Series: you took my hand and you made me run [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Powers, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Bisexual Harry Potter, Bisexual Male Character, Black Harry Potter, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Child Death, Cussing, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kissing, M/M, Past Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Past Relationship(s), Sirius Black Lives, Underage Drinking, Vampires, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-01 19:00:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15780144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VibrantVenus/pseuds/VibrantVenus
Summary: They say life’s a bitch. Harry would be heavily inclined to say that death is as well.Or, In which Harry Potter is a vaguely amnesiac vampire, Tom is a less creepy Edward Cullen. Vampires don’t sparkle, some play Dance Dance Revolution and Harry has questions he needs answered.Serious questions.Questions not related to why some of the first vampires were so lame.Well, maybe a few questions on that subject.





	Screenshots of Youth

**Author's Note:**

> So uhhhh here have my fic for the Tomarry Big Bang!!!! I know, finally.  
> Also the tags I originally had for this ended up not actually making it into the final cut of the story, so no torture or mentioned patricide here buddies! (Though maybe in a one shot since I'm turning this into a series so I can write about everything else)
> 
> ALSO- IMPORTANT DATES YOU NEED TO KNOW FOR THIS FIC:  
> Fic takes place in 2017  
> Harry-born in the 80's (1987)  
> Tom-1920's (1926) was changed when he was 18 during world war 2 (right before the war ends-almost makes it to 19)  
> Sirius-born in 1959, changed a few weeks after Harry was born  
> Lucius-born during victorian era late 1800's was changed in his mid 20's

  Here’s the thing about vampirism, it’s not as fun as the movies make it out to be. Harry doesn’t twinkle like a diamond in sunlight, he can’t turn into a bat or control minds. Well, some vampires could do that, but Harry, specifically, could not. In fact, vampires didn’t have any kind of reaction to sunlight. One of the first discovered vampires was _allergic_ to sunlight-resulting in humans thinking _all_ vampires had a sensitivity to sunlight. Which, by the way, if asked, Harry will tell you is totally lame.

  Because it is. Super lame.

  But no one asks Harry, so he just thinks about that from time to time.

  Anyways, where was he? Oh yeah, vampirism-not as cool as you’d think. The only things the movies got right was how cold he was, and the superhuman speed and strength. Also, you know, the blood thing. The drinking blood thing.

  Harry was 17 when he died. When a vampire broke into his aunt and uncle’s home, looking for a tasty snack, and instead found him. Which, you know, sucks because if he had just been allowed to stay over at his friends house, he totally wouldn’t have been chef boyardee for some stupid hungry vampire.

  He doesn’t know what made the vampire that attacked him decide to let him live, or well, change. He doesn’t know who turned him, or why or even _how._ He just remembers burning, and then waking up alone in a house so dusty he could tell no one had lived there in years. He remembered his eyes snapping open, and being able to see every spec of dust, could see the cracks in the wood of the ceiling, could hear the sound of a car honking in the distance.

  But that was about twenty years ago.

  Harry doesn’t like to think of what he’d be right now if he wasn’t eternally 17 years old. It makes him, well, sad, for lack of a better word. He’d like to think he got a successful job, like to think maybe he married Ginny and had a child with her.

  The only good side he can think of to being stuck as a seventeen year old for the rest of his immortal life, is the fact that he gets to fulfill his dream of traveling. He still remembers being five and only let out of his cupboard to do his chores and go to school. It’s the one thing that he hates the most about his time with the Durselys, the one thing that leaves him bitter and angry, even after all these years. But now, now he’s been all over the world. He’s partied in Brazil during Carnival, has swam on the coasts of Greece, has stood at the top of the Eiffel Tower.

  Still, Harry finds himself...bored, more often than not. The thing about being mostly immortal is the fact that he’ll always have the time in the world to put things off. Some days he’ll stand in one spot and watch the world change around him, watch the grass grow and the people age. Watch the day fade into night watch the stars blink out as the sun rises and so on as the cycle continues. He spent a month sitting, invisible atop a building, watching people walking by, living their day to day lives. Humans were always in such a rush, always had so much to do and such short lives to do it. Harry misses that, misses having a purpose.

  Now he’s just...this.

  This purposeless, blood-sucking fre-

  “Ah, Harry, you’re brooding again aren’t you?”

  He shrugs the hand off his shoulder, giving the other vampire a half hearted smile, “Aren’t I always?”

  And this was Tom, the closest thing to a friend Harry had in the vampire world. Harry had met him not long after he’d been changed, when he still wasn’t sure what had happened, but had the common sense to know he wasn’t human any longer, and probably shouldn’t go back home.

  Tom had walked up to him, and just seemed to _know._ Tom said it came with age, the ability to immediately recognize another vampire on first glance. Harry wonders how old Tom must be for him to know. He doesn’t ask.

  He sighs wearily staring up at Tom, who has now sat himself beside Harry. One of Tom’s hands rises to Harry’s head, wrapping a singly unruly curl around his finger, and he restrains the pleased shudder trying to throw him off the sense of calm he’s tried so hard to maintain. They’ve been friends long enough that he stops flinching when his hands come close to his neck, long enough for him to stop insisting Tom keep his hands out of his hair. Tom never listened anyways, and it was relatively harmless, so Harry stopped bothering with it. Now he just closes his eyes and enjoys the way Tom’s fingers scratch against his scalp, pretends he doesn’t like the way his nails dig into his skin. He doesn't realize how fully he’s leaned into Tom’s hand until he hears him chuckle. He jerks away with a huff, narrowing his eyes at Tom as his face flushes. And Tom just smiles, sugary sweet, as he lets his hands fall into his lap.

  They sit in silence watching the sun set, and his eyes flutter shut as a cool gust of wind blows his hair into his face. It feels like fingers and he’s reminded of…

 

_There’s fingers in his hair, and his body feels like one giant bruise. Twin tears stream from his eyes as the man crouches above him eyes glowing silver in the darkness._

_“Hush now, you’re much too pretty to be making such a mess of yourself. It’ll be over in just a minute.”_

_The stark contrast of the man’s inhumanly pale skin against his arm had made him shudder. He couldn’t scream, as the man’s teeth descended lower and lower towards his throat. One pale white hand brushed the hair out of his face. He felt like he would die from the fear of it but then, then the monstrous man stopped._

_“Oh my.”_

_And here the man had smiled at him, almost lovingly, like a father to his son._

_“What an extraordinary boy you are, my dear. I know I already gave you one scar, but surely you wouldn’t mind another? I really did miss you.”_

_Harry hadn’t even a second to process what was happening until he felt a deep stabbing sensation in his throat, a terrible burning had taken over his senses, but he had never screamed, still too used to the Dursleys for him to ever make noise while in pain. And then there was blood in his mouth and he was drowning. He was still burning, his nerves screaming a symphony of pain beneath his skin._

_It had burned so much, he felt he could die from the pain of it._

_It had hurt so mu-_

  He jerks, his hand flying to the ice cold scar on his throat, a scream caught in his throat. Tom catches him when he almost falls off the building, and Harry is shuddering and crying and he CAN’T BREATHE.

  It wasn’t an accident.

  It had never been an accident.

  All these years, he’d been wondering how, wondering why, and this-this was it. Except there were still blanks, still gaps in the story.

  But now he knew his killer’s face.

  “I know who turned me, I know what he looks like.” His breath comes out in shuddering gasps, and Tom goes deathly still beside him.

  “Well...what do you want to do about that.”

  Harry turns to him, eyes so old in a face so young, and all he can thinks is that he just wants to know _why._ What changed in those few moments for him to ascend from snack to companion?

  And if he was so special, then where was the man who turned him?

  “I want to find him.”

  And Tom nods solemnly, as if he understands.

  “Then I will help you.”

  He looks up, shock filtering through him, and he’s already opening his mouth to reject him, tell him that he doesn’t have to do this for him, but Tom stops him with a hand to his mouth.

  “You’re my friend, of course I’ll help you,” and he smiles, charming as can be, and Harry isn’t sure where they’ll go from here, but he thinks he might be glad he has Tom here with him.

 

  Tom brings him back to his apartment, sitting Harry down on his couch. He hasn’t spoken once since Tom had promised to help him on his search. He still doesn’t...he doesn’t even know where to start. How does one find a single man out of over seven billion people? Better yet, how do you go about doing that, when you don’t even have a name to match to the face?

  He’s so deep in his thoughts he doesn’t hear Tom talking him until he flicks him in the forehead, he startles, turning to look up at Tom who’s frowning at him.

  “Stop angsting, anyways I wanted to know if you wanted to stay here for tonight? I’ve got some blood bags in the fridge and I can set up the couch for you.” He’s speaking before he realizes he’s even opened his mouth and, “Can I sleep with you?”

  Tom smirks, and he flushes, pressing a hand against his forehead, “I didn’t-not like that, you asshole!” He rubs his hands down his face, disrupting the glasses he didn’t really need. “I don’t mean it in a weird way, but I just...don’t think I should be alone? It was stupid suggestion I’ll just-” He starts to get up, but Tom grabs his arm, stopping him from the swift departure he’d momentarily been planning. “Shut up, it’s fine. Anyways, have you eaten?”

  He shakes his head, and suddenly he has a cool baggie labeled ‘Allison Stevens’ in his hand. This is the worst part he thinks, and he sighs, taking the cup Tom offers him. It had never gotten less difficult to deal with the fact that what he was drinking was once part of a human, he’d never been able to stomach drinking from the source. Some vamps had made it almost a business to break into blood banks and sell off the product to hungry vamps who couldn’t handle the whole ‘having to drink from living human beings and risk accidentally killing them’ bit.

  It wasn’t exactly a great solution, but it was the best he had.

  Some sellers were assholes and tried to overcharge, but there were other sellers that understood that just because Edward Cullen had a Volvo, didn’t mean that actual real vampire’s could afford anything of the sort. He closes his eyes, sighing quietly before tearing open the bag and pouring it into the cup. He swirls the scarlet liquid sullenly, before bringing the cup to his lips. Suddenly he can smell it, and it doesn’t matter that it’s cold because he’s ravenous, and he’s gulping the liquid down almost desperately, he can feel some of it drip over the side of the cup and down his face, but it doesn’t matter. It’s salty and it fills his belly up and he’s almost desperate for more when he finishes.

  His hands shake, and his mind returns to him slowly. Tom is smiling at him softly, and he mutters amusedly, “You’re such a messy eater Harry,” his thumb comes up to swipe away the blood on his chin, he holds eyes contact with Harry when he slips the blood covered digit into his mouth. His eyes fixate on the movement, and he gulps, because _wow._

  He jerks his eyes away, embarrassed, turning to stare instead at the view outside the window. The street lights give off a warm glow, and he can see a light flicker on in the building across the street. His mind feels fuzzy now that he’s fed, and he abruptly realizes he’s tired. He turns, blinking wearily at Tom, who is staring at him with an intangible expression on his face. He opens his mouth, but a yawn escapes him before he has a chance to say anything else. He rubs a hand against his forehead, speaking slowly, “Tom...can we just go to sleep for now?” Everything else, he thinks, can wait for now. Tom smiles, the strange expression wiped away, and helps him up. He’s led by hand to Tom’s room, and some distant dizzy part of his lizard brain thinks that this is all terribly sappy and romantic, but he’s too tired to ponder more on the thought. Too tired to think of the implications of those thoughts.

  Tom pushes his bedroom door open, and Harry realizes that this may just be the first time he’s ever been in Tom’s room. The light’s are off, but Harry can still see perfectly fine. The bed is large, with a thick emerald blanket smoothed over top, there’s a door to the side probably leading off to a closet or a bathroom, and the dresser and side tables are made of a dark wood. Tom lets go of his hand to flick on the lamp, and Harry momentarily misses the warmth of Tom’s hand in his own. Tom turns to him, asking if he’d like to borrow some sleep clothes, and Harry nods, but he isn’t really sure what he was expecting.  
  The rest of the time between then and him getting in bed passes in a blur, he vaguely remembers undressing and sliding into a pair of slippery smooth pants, and brushing his teeth with a spare toothbrush Tom had given him. Then he’s sliding into bed, and it’s terribly comfortable and warm. Tom shuts the lamp off and he feels more than sees Tom get into the bed as well, and he sighs when Tom’s body presses ever so slightly against his own, enough for him to feel warm where Tom’s hand has fallen against his own.

  There’s a moment of silence between them as they lay in the darkness, it’s a soft, comforting creature and he’s so tired but,

  “Tom?”

  The sound settles over them like a blanket, and it’s only a whisper but,

  “Yes, Harry?”

  He’s so tired and,

  “I don’t know what to do.”

  And Tom sighs, but it’s not angry and,

  “That’s alright. We’ll figure it out together.”

  And Harry falls asleep smiling, the sound of a band two miles down echoing in his ear, his hand clasped in Tom’s.

  He falls asleep feeling safe.

 

  There’s a bird chirping outside the window. Harry wakes up slowly, feeling soft and warm and comfortable. There’s a concentrated warmth pressing against his back and around his stomach, and he curls up close to it, sighing happily. His eyes open slowly, and he stares at the wall, his vision blurred as he squints at a pale patch of sunlight glimmering in the otherwise dark room. His head tilts and he eyes the arm around him. Tom’s skin is pale, covered in fine hair and pale brown freckles. He grasps it lightly, eyes the contrast between his own dark skin and Tom’s, and a part of him _wants._

  Love was something Harry had avoided. He’d grown up for the longest time without it, had grown up in a cold home that didn’t care for him or his _kind._ But then-then he received his letter. His parents-who weren’t drunkards, weren’t wastes of space- had his name down for a fancy boarding school as soon as he could walk. He’d attended and he’d met Ron, and he fell in love for the first time. Ron was the closest thing to a brother Harry ever had.  The minute he’d seen Ron, with his freckled face and flame red hair, he’d thought, _‘yes, this is someone I’m going to be friends with forever.’_

  There was a part of him that just knew, as if a part of his very soul recognized Ron Weasley. Ron had looked up at him and smiled, asked if he wanted to be friends, and that it seemed, had been that. They’d shared the sandwich his mum had made for him, and an hour into the ride Hermione burst into their lives, asking if they’d seen a boy’s frog. They hadn’t but she said it was fine, and she’d started to walk out, when Harry had stopped her one hand lightly grasping her wrist. Something about her was familiar, just as familiar as Ron had been, and he asks if she’d like to sit with them after she found the frog.

  And she’d looked at him, eyes watering, teeth nibbling on her lower lip. She’d nodded and ran out of the compartment, and Ron had asked him what that was about. Harry didn’t have an answer for him. Didn’t know how to explain that she and Ron felt like home and safety and love.

  The years had passed with a startling speed, his school years spent learning and growing. His teachers-his teachers knew his parents. Professor McGonagall had told him over tea that he had his mother’s eyes and his father’s face. For weeks after that every time he’d looked in the mirror he saw his mother and father staring back at him. Hagrid had given him a photo album filled with pictures of them for christmas. He’d received a coat that had belonged to his father  from an anonymous sender, and a sweater in green and gold from Mrs. Weasley. Every time he’d worn it he’d felt warm.

  He’d met Ginny when he was in his second year, and she’d been shy and sweet, but other than that, all she’d been to him was his best friend’s little sister. He’d grown and grown and grown and he’d dated Cho Chang briefly in his fifth year, but they’d parted as friends and girls had remained a confusing aspect of life to him. He’d only realized that he maybe kinda sorta like Ginny after their team won a game of rugby. She’d looked at him, sweat dripping past her eyes, her face flushed with joy, a smile as wide and bright as the sun. He thinks that he fell just a little bit in love with her in that moment.

  He’d confronted her about his feelings later, and she’d smiled so bright and when she kissed him his world erupted in fireworks. They’d dated up until his death.

  There was a part of him-that bitter angry part of his heart that still loved her, but it was numbed with acceptance. It had been twenty years, Ginny had very likely moved on with her life. Moved on in a way that Harry never could.

  Harry was stuck, for lack of a better word.

  But maybe...his eyes flicker back to his and Tom’s hands, still twined together. Maybe he could have this one thing?

  For a long time he’d blamed himself for being turned. It was irrational and he knew it, but it didn’t stop him from feeling hopeless and angry. He’d missed out on so much, and yet here he was. Still relatively alive, still breathing. He didn’t have to be angry and lonely for the rest of his existence. He closes his eyes, sighing, his hand grips Tom’s tighter for just a second before letting the hand fall back around his waist. He falls back asleep, a small smile spread across his face.

 

  The second time he wakes up, he’s alone, but Tom’s spot is still warm. He rolls into the spot snatching up what little bit of warmth he can before he has to get up. He dozes lightly for a few more minutes before finally rolling out of the bed. He leaves his glasses on the side table, rubbing his eyes as he patters into the living room. Tom turns holding two bags of blood, a wry smile on his face. Harry looks at him warily as Tom offers the bags.

  “So, would you like AB negative or AB positive?”

  He bites his lip to contain his laughter and stutters out a choked “Positive.”

  It’s terrible really, but he likes the way Tom smiles as he pours the blood into a bag, sticking it in the microwave for two minutes. He’s almost tempted to ask if Tom has any of those fun swirly straws he remembered Dudley drinking from when he was a child. He doesn’t, but Tom smiles like he knows what he was thinking when he passes him his cup. He takes his time, sipping at the warm liquid in his cup. He feels a small smile curl his lips as he watches Tom warming up his own cup. There’s a part of him that likes the way this feels, likes how this feels like home. He thinks, hesitantly, that he could build a life here with Tom.

  However that moment of peace, of _joy,_ is torn to shreds when he remembers the task he’s burdened himself with. A hand comes up to scrub at his eyes as he thinks of the face of his killer. The long white blonde hair and glowing silver eyes burned into the back of his eyelids like a brand. A part of his brain lanches on something the man had said, something that struck abruptly against his brain.

  “ _I know I already gave you one scar, but surely you wouldn’t mind another?”_

_“I know I already gave you one scar…”_

_“I really did miss you.”_

His eyes snap open and a hand raises to press against the scar on his forehead. Every time he’s touched it, it’s been fleeting, like the wings of a butterfly, but now-

  Now, with the full pressure of his fingers against the scar, he realizes, abruptly, that the thin line of scarring is ice cold.

  He looks up at Tom who is staring at him, dark eyes wondering. His voice comes out in a croak when he says, “I think...I think we need to look into the crash that killed my parents.”

 

  Surprisingly enough, it’s not very hard to find information on the crash. He and Tom go to the library and request newspapers from around the date of the crash. Apparently his parents were pretty well known, and their death was devastating enough to land on the front page of a couple newspapers. He feels like he should be sad, feels like there should be some sense of loss when he thinks about his dead parents-sees the photos of their car after the crash. But there’s nothing except a sort of dull sadness for the loss of life. However, newspapers, he knows, aren’t going to be enough to find the answers he needs. Sometimes he remembers glimpses of the crash, flashes of silver, fiery red hair, a woman screaming. It’s not enough-never enough.

  He feels abruptly unsettled when he realizes he doesn’t even know where their graves are. He looks to Tom and he can feel frustration building up behind his eyes. Tom sits for a moment, his eyes flicking back to the newspaper in his hands. “I think,” he begins, flipping the newspaper around for Harry to see the name on the page, “I have an idea where we should go.” His fingers point at a name and Harry leans closer, and this...this could work. He hadn’t even thought to go to the hospital where his parents were taken-where he was taken after the crash.

 

  They’re crouched on top of the hospital, the both of them covered by Harry’s invisibility. The sun shines over their heads. They’re waiting for something, but Harry isn’t quite sure what. Finally Tom perks up, pointing at a pair of doctors in the distance, Harry looks and his eyes immediately latch onto the identification cards clipped to their coats. They’re standing close enough that it’s clear they’re talking to each other. He looks to Tom and nods, Tom taking that as his queue, jumps down from the roof. Harry jumps after him, eyeing the way Tom steadily makes his way to the pair. Harry watches from a distance as Tom slowly snatches up their cards. He makes his way back to Harry, weaving between the clueless humans around them. He dangles them in Harry’s face, a triumphant grin spread across his lips as he drops the woman’s card in his waiting hand. Harry flushes, turning away to stare at the doctors as they slowly walked further and further away from the hospital. Once they’re gone he turns to Tom, “Now what?” And Tom smiles, small and secretive, “Now, you get to see what I can do.”

  Tom smiles down at him, and Harry is eager. “Close your eyes,” he says, so Harry does. He feels Tom’s fingers, long and steady, press against his eyelids, curving over the edges of his jaw, gliding over his lips and down the sides of his neck. His power feels like water pouring over his head, warm and silky smooth and fluid. Graceful even. When he opens his eyes Tom doesn’t look like himself, now he has the face of the doctor from before, his scruffy salt and pepper beard and warm brown eyes, his face wrinkled with a history of joy and despair. When Harry looks down at his hands, he’s shocked to realize he’s now the very white doctor from before. His hands feel strong for all that they appear dainty, his hair he can tell is a pale blonde, and he realizes he’s now a few inches taller. He looks down and is glad to find himself in very sensible shoes, he doesn’t think he could actually manage to walk in heels. He looks down at the id card in his hand and stares at his current face.

  The woman isn’t beautiful, but she looks happy in her picture, joy lighting up her face. Her eyes are a dark bottle green and she has dimples, and freckles! He’d always wanted freckles. She looked human, which, obviously but still. All vampires had this sense of inhuman beauty, faces too smooth, eyes too bright. Faces too perfectly crafted, and over all not human. Humans weren’t perfect looking, something that Harry had found he liked. He liked the little ways that they weren’t beautiful, he liked the wrinkles and scars and patches of discoloration. These were all things he’d never have. His smile feels bitter, but he shakes it away, turning to look at Tom, who he realizes is at level height with him.

  “Let’s go.”

 

  Surprisingly enough, once they’re inside the hospital, barely anyone looks at them. Harry takes a look at the map of the hospital, searching for some kind of records room, he finds it on the map, tucked away at basement level. He and Tom step onto the elevator, and Harry presses the button for the basement. However they’re stopped when a short woman enters the elevator, pressing the button for the third floor. She clearly recognizes Harry, or the woman who’s form he’s taken. She smiles at Harry as the doors close and they begin to ascend to the woman’s floor. She begins to speak and Harry shares a worried look with Tom over the woman-Emily’s head. “So, anyways Sandra, I wanted to ask how the baby was? Your little boy is okay at home with the nanny right? No problems?” Harry rubs a hand against his neck, hoping he doesn’t look as worried as he is and replies, “Yeah he’s good. I uhh...I was worried he wouldn’t do well without me, but he’s been doing fine.” Emily makes sympathetic noises and then, “So you still don’t know who the father is right?”

  And Harry gulps, looks at Tom again and says, “No, no idea.” Emily clicks her tongue, but let’s the conversation drop as the elevator stops, the doors opening on the third floor. “Well, this is my stop. I’ll see you later, right Sandra?” And Emily turns to him, expectant, and Harry can feel himself beginning to sweat, but he still says a quiet. “Maybe.” Emily smiles, turning to walk out the elevator. The doors close and they begin their descent to the basement, and Harry slumps against Tom. “God,” he croaks, “God that was nerve wracking.” His hands, are shaking, and he tucks them into his armpits. Tom doesn’t say anything, but Harry has a sense that the encounter had shaken Tom as well.

  Finally the elevator doors open to the basement, and Harry sighs with relief, making his way out of the elevator. He and Tom make their way to the records room, scanning their id cards as they enter. The room is filled with filing cabinets and it’s also blessedly empty. The cabinets are labeled by letter, so Harry turns to the closest one with the letter P. Tom comes to stand next to him as he rifles through the folders, finally coming upon the Potters. He pulls out all three files-one for his father, one for his mother, and one for him. He doesn’t...he doesn’t want to open them. For so long his life had been one set thing, and once he read these files, read what was inside of them...there would be no going back. He doesn’t realize his hand is trembling until Tom’s hand grabs his, holding it still. Harry looks at him, and he’s comforted slightly. “Look,” Tom pauses as if searching for the right words, “Why don’t we just take them back with us alright? We’ll worry about whatever is in these files when we’re somewhere less terror inducing than this hospital,” Harry nods, relieved, and they make their way out of the building.

  They ditch the cards near the front desk, making their way back to the tree where Tom had changed their appearances. Harry closes his eyes as he feels Tom’s power peeling off of him, and he feels alarmingly cold. Tom’s power had felt like a warm coat settled around his shoulders, and he silently aches with the loss. They make their way back to the apartment, the files seem to burn with their presence against his side, and Harry is aware of they way they shift with every step he takes.

  He hopes that his suspicions aren't correct.

 

  Tom unlocks his front door, ushering him inside. He tosses the files on the coffee table, sinking into the couch. He leans back, the heels of his hands pressed against his eyes. He’s exhausted and overwhelmed, the thought that his parents death might not be as normal as he’d believed is enough to drain him. He hears Tom rummaging around in his pantry, but he doesn’t pay much attention to it, choosing to watch the sunlight filtering through Tom’s sheer curtains. The sun is slowly setting, painting the sky in shades of gold, orange, and red. Tom’s voice comes to him from the kitchen, “When you were human did you ever try alcohol?” Harry pauses, turning to look up at Tom, “I was seventeen Tom.” Tom’s eyebrow raises, as if incredulous, “Your point is?” Harry laughs, shaking his head, “No, I never had alcohol as a human. There was thing called Butterbeer, but it wasn’t actually alcoholic. Kinda like Root Beer.”

  Tom smiles at him, bringing forth two classes and a bottle. “Well I have a...let’s call him a friend, who makes alcohol for vampires.” He pours a glass, offering it to Harry. He’s unsure for a moment, but then he figures he might as well. He takes the glass, watching as Tom pours himself a glass. He hesitantly raises the glass to his lips, watching Tom take his first sip. He closes his eyes and drinks, and it’s good. It tastes sweet but he can taste the blood underneath, musky and strong. He takes another sip before putting the glass down.

  He reaches for the nearest file, his fathers, and pulls it in between him and Tom. He closes his eyes tight before flipping it open, pulling out the first page. This one is just a general bio about his father, his name, age, weight and other information. What he’s looking for is the autopsy report, so he flicks through the rest of the pages until he finds it.

  This one mentions the crash and he breathes a sigh of relief but then his eyes flick further. Whoever had written this had made a side note that the body was drained of blood-possibly from the torn out throat, there’s mentions of his other injuries from the crash, but his eyes linger. He feels himself stiffen, and he passes the paper to Tom as he reaches for his mother’s file. He’s half frantic hoping it was just a coincidence, but his mothers file says the same things, torn throat, blood loss, he feels his hands shaking and he stands up, pacing back and forth. This changes so much, but does it? He sits back down, curling in on himself. He takes another sip of his drink and then he reaches for his file. His isn’t as thick, likely because his survival didn’t require an autopsy report. He flicks it open, takes his time reading each page. It doesn’t make sense, his only injury was the scar on his forehead, when he probably should have died alongside his parents. The oddest part about the crash overall has to be that his parents were the only victims. They didn’t crash into another person’s car, but into a pole, except a crash like that shouldn’t have been fatal.

  But Harry knows that this was no normal crash, that very likely they didn’t crash into a pole. Harry has knowledge that these humans wouldn’t have had.

  _“I really did miss you.”_

He whispers it under his breath, mirrors the words of his murderer. Tom stares at him strangely until Harry explains.

  “I think...I think the vampire who turned me also killed my parents,” He pauses to take a breath, chills crawling along his spine. “When he changed me, he said that he’d missed me. My parents autopsy reports point to their deaths being the work of a hungry vampire in search of a snack.” His brows furrow with confusion, “What I don’t get is why this guy didn’t just eat me then. I mean, I’m glad he didn’t, but what could have stopped him?”  He finishes his drink as Tom stands, “I’m sure that if we can find whatever or whoever stopped him, we might just be able to find him.”

  Harry nods along, before pausing, “Whoever?” Tom smiles down at him, grabbing the bottle and refilling their glasses, “The only thing that can stop one vampire is another. So, very likely whatever stopped your sire was actually another vampire.” Harry takes a few sips of his drink, “And,” Tom begins, “I think I have an idea who might have been the one to do it.”

  Harry gulps his drink down, standing quickly, “You know who it is, let’s go!” He’s walking to the door when Tom grips his shoulder making him stop. He turns to stare at him, half angry and half confused. “Harry, going right now won’t do anything for us. I said I have an idea of _who_ he is, not _where_ he is. We should wait till morning so we have more time to look for him, and right now you should sit down, have another drink. Relax, everything will work itself out.”

  Harry wants to protest, but he knows it’s useless to go out right now, and Tom is ever so reasonable. He sighs, his shoulders slumping, “You’re right,” and Tom smiles, letting go of his shoulder. He sits back down, mind racing over all this new information. He feels like this is all moving so fast but the information...it’s all been there, just waiting for him to look for it. Waiting for him to just open his eyes. He looks at Tom from beneath his lashes, thinking about what he’d be doing without Tom. Very likely he might not have made as much progress as he was currently. Sure he could have found the newspapers and eventually he would have thought to go to the hospital and find their autopsy reports. But Tom had connections, had other vampires he knew well enough to receive free bottles of wine.

  Harry had no one.

  No one, that is, but Tom.

  He’d avoided other vampires as if they had the plague. He’d avoided Tom too, when they’d first met. Had been adamant on not making friends, still recovering from the loss of his humanity and the life he’d had before. To lose so much in one night had frustrated and terrified him. What if he made new friends here, and had that taken from him as well? Isolation had suited him, but Tom had been persistent, for the first few weeks after they met. He’d seen something in Harry, something Harry couldn’t identify. Something worth trying for.

  He feels his heart fluttering and he wants to say something, do something spontaneous. But in his mind he says, _‘not now, not like this’_

  Not when he’s so close to having a solid answer.

  He closes his eyes and takes another sip.

 

  He drifts, his heart trapped behind his teeth as he floats in a soft space between awareness and sleep. He feels himself being carried to a bed, feels his shoes and socks being pulled off. His eyes open for a second as Tom helps him out of his shirt, and he mutters out a quiet ‘thanks’ as he kicks off his pants. Tom smiles down at him, passing him a pair of pants that Harry clumsily worms his way into. He crawls under the blanket and is already half way asleep when he feels Tom slide into the other side of the bed. Harry stares at his back for a moment, and he so desperately wants to touch him. Wants to feel the way their lips would mold against each other, the way Tom might taste. He wants to _bite him._ Wants to sink his teeth in and never let go. Wants to feel himself fall. He closes his eyes and drifts.

 

  He wakes with the rising sun, his eyes opening blearily in the dim room. His head feels fuzzy and he doesn’t want to move. He blinks slowly as his eyes adjust, watching the dust dance in a patch of sunlight. He stares at Tom’s back, eyeing the pale expanse of his back. He feels a smile pull at his lips as he stares at the small curls at the back of Tom’s head. He feels his heart stuttering in his chest, and he thinks, quietly, that this is it for him. He has an eternity, but Tom is the last person he’ll ever let himself love.There’s a part of him that’s terrified, because the jump is steep, but another part of him, a louder part of his heart tells him that he’s already fallen.

  Now, all he needs to do is _soar._

  He senses Tom waking up beside him, and he absently hopes he doesn’t look as terribly in love as he feels. Though he thinks-he thinks he wouldn’t quite mind if he did. He’s spent so long hiding, it might just be time for him to come out of the shadows and into the sunlight.

  Tom sits up, turning to stare down at Harry. He smiles and Harry feels warm, and he scrunches his eyes shut because-because even though he knows what he wants-knows what he feels, he’s still scared. Still afraid of rejection, of ruining the one good thing he has left. But he has to-he has to at least _try._

  He sits up as well, angling his body towards Tom’s, and he feels himself swallow dryly before he speaks. “I want to try something...if you’re not,” he pauses to take a shuddering breath his eyes closing tightly for just a moment, “If you’re not into it, feel free to tell me to piss off.”

  He takes a deep breath, praying to any god that will listen that this will go well, and then he leans forward, slotting his lips against Tom’s. It’s a hesitant thing, but then Harry feels Tom’s hand graze his cheek, so gentle, he thinks _finally._

  When he pulls back there’s something like satisfaction swirling in his eyes. His eyes are so blue, he thinks, dark as the ocean, a swirling storm that Harry wouldn’t mind drowning in. The thought doesn’t scare him as much as it should. Doesn’t scare him as much as it would have when he was human.

  The room is awash with the golden light of sunlight, Tom’s pale face glows warm and pleased, and Harry’s in love. He’s in love and it scares him just ever so slightly, Harry absentmindedly traces the freckles on Tom’s shoulders, and Tom quietly begins to speak, his voice washing over Harry’s skin

  “Do you know that I’ve been trying to get you to do that for almost five years?”

  And he laughs, like that isn’t the best thing Harry’s heard in years. As if this isn’t a moment of sunshine in what had been years of metaphorical rain. Eventually Harry can’t help it, and he begins to laugh as well. He falls back down onto the bed with a sigh of content, and he hesitates for a moment before reaching for Tom’s hand. He twines their fingers together, and it’s the first time he’s done this with Tom fully awake and aware of the touch. The first time he’s done this with Tom as someone he could love.

  Someone he already loves.

  God, he’s fucked, isn’t he?

  He smiles when Tom huffs at him, falling back onto the bed where Harry has tugged him down. He’s still nervous, but there’s joy bubbling in his heart, like a fountain.

  “Do you think...after all of this is over we could maybe..go on a date or something?”

  And he almost second guesses himself because what would two vampires even _do_ on a date? It’s not like they can to a restaurant or anything, but then the logical part of his brain reminds him that-oh yeah, there are actually more things you can do on a date than just eating. He’s interrupted from his anxiety-riddled thoughts by the feeling of Tom squeezing his hand and muttering that they should probably just go on that date now, because Harry-for all his immortalized good looks, looks like he’s about to die from stress.

  “Besides,” he says, “Everything we’re doing will still be there after a date, and we don’t even know where any of the people we’re looking for currently are. This gives us time for my contacts to find the man who might know anything about your situation, and you get to sit down and actually breathe for a few seconds,” he smirks when Harry frowns at him, but Harry knows it’s true.

  He can hear the smile in Tom’s voice when he speaks,

  “So, what do you want to do on this date?”

  And Harry’s brain crashes-like a car against a brick wall. He thinks of one of the first dates he’d taken Ginny on- He’d taken her to an arcade, she wasn’t into it, but somehow she had still called him back. He remembers liking it, liking the cool darkness and bright electronic lights. The sound of laughter and music. He closes his eyes and he can tell that this is something he wants, something he’d like to share with Tom. When he opens his eyes, Tom has a warm look curling the corners of his smile.

  “There’s this arcade I went to once-when I was still human. I think it would be...fun I guess to go again? I know an arcade doesn’t really go with the whole elegant debonair vibe you have going for you-” He laughs as Tom smacks his shoulder, but Tom is smiling so he knows he’s not in trouble, “But I think you might like it.”   

  Tom shakes his head with a laugh, but nods his assent.

  “Sure Harry, anything for you.”

  Harry can’t help the chills that roll down his spine at Tom’s words.

 

  The inside of the building is just slightly warmer than the cool air outside, and Harry revels in the flashing neon lights and the bright ringing sounds of the different machines. Harry had gone back to his apartment for what felt like the first time in too long, and had changed into some of his own clothes. Tom had pulled a white t-shirt and jeans from some corner of his closet, and Harry was surprised that Tom had even owned them. He’d never seen Tom in anything more casual than a button up shirt and slacks.

  Tom smiles at him, and Harry feels his non beating heart fluttering in his chest. He digs into his pocket, pulling out some of the rolls of quarters he’d been saving since 2005, he jerks his head over to the games with a smile, and Tom laughs, grabbing his hand and following him.

  They linger near the fruit ninja game for a while, alternately taking turns beating eachother’s scores. They hop from game to game, and Harry drowns any nervousness he might feel when he looks up at Tom who seems to be genuinely enjoying himself.

  He almost walks past the game before he freezes, slowly turning to stare at the bright flashing contraption.The music pounds as two young girls jump on the different arrows as they light up, frantically trying to keep up, he pulls Tom over from where he’d been inspecting one of the claw machines, and nods towards the game. “Would you...the Dashing Tom Riddle, be so kind as to indulge a poor besotted fool in a dance battle?”

  He bows at the waist, one hand behind his back, the other held out for Tom, grinning cheekily up at an unimpressed Tom, who rolls his eyes up to the ceiling.

  “You know, I’m not actually _that_ old.”

  Still he gives a positive response, and Harry cheers quickly stepping onto the platform as the two young girls leave for another game. He presses a quarter in for himself, Tom stepping up and pressing one in as well.

  Harry picks a song, and the game starts up slowly. Soon the music starts and Harry loses himself in a blur of joy as he follows the arrows on the screen. The lights glow brightly and he looks over at Tom, who’s fast enough that he can catch most of the moves. He laughs slightly, and Harry feels his chest fill with warmth, a peal of laughter erupting from his own throat.

  Tom ends up winning, and Harry smiles as he takes Tom’s hand.

  “Hey,” Tom starts, “What do you think we should do next?”

  Harry pauses, realizing that he’s had his fill of the arcade. He racks his mind for a few moment, coming up with nothing.

  “I don’t know,” he says, “what do you wanna do?”

  Tom stares off for a moment,  “I think I have an idea.”

  Tom takes him to a beach. He tells him that when he was a child the orphanage he lived at visited this beach on special occasions. He shows him the cave he used to hide in, when he wanted to avoid the other children. He digs up a locket he’d left there all those years ago.

  They linger in the cave for a few more moments, Tom lost in memories from a lifetime ago.

  Eventually they drift back to the sandy beach. The moon shines bright, the stars winking at them. He takes off his shoes and socks, sitting close enough to the water for the waves to catch his feet. Tom does the same, sitting next to him and quietly staring off into the distance.

  Harry takes his hand, listening to Tom breathe. They talk quietly for a few minutes, about things important and not. There’s so much Harry doesn’t know about Tom, and yet he feels like he’s known him forever. He looks up at Tom to find him staring at him, a distant smile on his face. He leans up, his hands falling to rest on Tom’s shoulders. When he kisses him, he almost feels like he’s alive again. He eases his way into Tom’s lap as his arms wrap around his waist.

  There’s a star, burning bright in his chest, he’s in love.

  It should scare him. It should scare him that he has so readily drowned himself in Tom.

  But there’s no room for regret.

  He kisses Tom, again, and again, and again.

  Tom pulls away at the sound of his phone ringing, he smiles at him before moving away to answer the call. Harry sits, staring at the sky and each individual star. He counts three hundred and twenty three individual specs of light before Tom finishes his call and comes back over to him. He helps him up from the ground, and Harry looks at Tom curiously until he begins to speak.

  “We’ve found him.”

  Harry swallows dryly, “Him?”

  Tom smirks, and Harry finds himself unprepared for what Tom says next.

   “Sirius Black, the person who most likely stopped your mysterious sire, and,” Tom pauses, and Harry isn’t quite sure if he’s nervous or excited for whatever is next going to come out of his mouth.

  “Your godfather.”

  His stomach drops to his knees, a vague sense of horror creeps into his bones.

  “My _what?_ ”

 

  The man looks haggard and worn out, surprisingly disheveled compared to normal vampires. His skin has a pale grey hue, his hair a tangled mess, and yet his eyes are the most dead part of him.

  There’s a moment of confusion when the man looks at him, before it fades into an abruptly horrified sense of recognition.

  “...Harry?”

  His voice is filled with panic, and he nods, his voice shaking.

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  The man-Sirius’ face drains of color, his skin taking an even ghostlier appearance than before.

  “I-how?” Harry smiles, a small, grim thing.

  “I think you know.”

  Sirius shakes, his voice coming out as a frantic string of no’s. His eyes are filled with sorrow, and Harry flinches when he presses his hands against the sides of his face. Sirius is much taller than him, and Harry has to crane his neck to stare up at the man who seems close to weeping.

  “How old are you,” his voice trembles, and Harry abruptly feels his throat clog as he strains not to cry. The man’s sadness is contagious.

  “I was seventeen.”

  Sirius’s face scrunches, and his voice a whisper, “You were practically a child, who would-”

  Suddenly he freezes, a series of emotions flashing across his face.

  “Can you tell me what he looked like?”

  Harry stares up at him, before listing off everything he can remember. Sirius pauses, eyes gone blank as he sifts through memories.

  The silence lasts only a moment before he seems to burst into rage, his hands slipping away from Harry to clench tightly. “I fucking-I’ll kill him. Fucking tear him to pieces I swear it.” he curls into a tight ball of fury, and Harry abruptly realizes that this may be exactly what he needs. He crouches to be level with Sirius, and quietly asks, “Who?”

  Sirius freezes, “What do you mean who? Your sire?”

  Harry shakes his head, “I never met him, not really. I saw him when he was changing me, but I woke up alone.”

  This seems to further infuriate Sirius who angrily mutters about how at least his sire had the decency to help him adjust.

   “Please Sirius,” he’s almost begging, “Please, I need you to tell me everything you know about the man changed me. Sirius stares at him, at the desperation that must surely shine on his face.

  “I...alright.”

  And he gives Harry the one thing he needed, a name.

   _Lucius Malfoy._

 

  He’s sitting in a chair in an empty room. The air tastes stale, abandoned, and he stares up at Tom who tells him where they found Lucius. Of the decrepit manor the man had been hiding in.

  The doors open and Harry is presented with a disheveled man, long blond hair messy and skin dangerously pale and gaunt.

  This is the man that had haunted Harry’s life. The one that had taken away his life, taken away his future, and for what?

  “Why did you do it?”

  And the man almost smiles, but his eyes show his terror. He gulps, his eyes flicking to Tom and then back to Harry, but finally he sighs, his shoulders slumping with defeat, and he begins to speak.

  “Many years ago, when I was still human, I had a wife. Her name was Narcissa, and together we had a son named Draco. Our life was good, both my wife and I came from wealth, and our son, who had been a very sickly child, only knew the best. Then one night everything changed. I woke one morning to my wife screaming, and found that our son had died in his sleep,” he paused, a shudder running through his body, “It was so easy. A freshly bathed child not properly tucked in, a window accidentally left open during a cool winter night, and suddenly our lives were in shambles.”

  His eyes close momentarily, and Harry almost feels bad for him.

  “We thought we would die from the sheer agony of the loss, my wife became a ghost of herself. We both did, but I still had a job that I needed to do. We didn’t try for another child. There was no replacing our first born, not when his birth had already been terribly strenuous on Narcissa,” he pauses, and Harry can hear the pain in his breath.

  Here is his boogeyman. Reduced to something broken and pitiful. The monster becoming nothing more that a sad old man.

  “One day I was a human on a walk to clear his head. Three days later I was one of the undead. I saw it as a boon, I could live forever, I could change my wife and maybe one day we could come to accept the loss of the child we had mourned. We would have eternity to let our grief blossom into acceptance, into a bright future.”

  He rubs a hand across his face, and Harry tries not to stare at the deep bruised shadows beneath his eyes.

  “I rushed home to tell my wife, I delighted in the feeling of the wind against my skin, the strength in my limbs. I felt powerful. I felt, ironically enough, alive for the first time in months. I told my wife, and for the first time in ages I saw a spark of life return to her eyes. I offered to change her, to make her something eternal. She agreed, and I bit her.”

  He curls in on himself, emitting a few pained chuckles. Harry finds himself confused, “If you’re wife agreed to the change, then why isn’t she here? Why did you need me?”

  Lucius looks up at him from the floor, eyes clouded in sadness.

  He speaks and,

  “What they don’t tell you is that sometimes the transformation doesn’t work.”

  Harry flinches, his hands gripping the arms of the chair he’s sitting in. He turns to look up at Tom, who had been leaning against the wall, he nods and Harry doesn’t know how to feel. A small part of him wants Lucius to stop talking, wants to stop feeling sympathy for the man who stole his future. But a smaller, compassionate part of him says that the man at his feet has been shattered, that he deserves to finish his story.  
  He sighs, clearing his throat and gesturing for Lucius to continue. He doesn’t think he can speak right now, doesn’t know what he’d say.

  “Three days of my wife screaming, and I was left with nothing but the ashes of a life I’d once lived. My child taken too soon, my wife lost for reasons unknown. I was alone, mad with desperation and fear. The hunger became a terrible burden, and I became something I cannot recognize. A creature driven to the very edge of humanity, something filled with fury and anguish. I languished in my isolation, I only lived to terrorize the streets of London, snatching up any who came too close when hunger struck.”

  He shakes his head as if disappointed in himself, pale hair drifting around his shoulders with the movement.

  “I eventually realized that isolation didn’t suit me. My loss had numbed, the wound cauterizing itself, but nothing could stop the loneliness burning inside of me.”

  He had been staring at the ground while telling his story, lost in the swirling mist of memories from a time long past, but now he looks up, eyes aglow once more.

  “I had planned to steal away a child. Raise them to adulthood and change them if they wished. Obviously I would have killed the parents, I couldn’t tolerate the loss of my own child, who was I to instill that pain in other parents? Other parents who would have at least had the hope of thinking their child was alive?”

  Harry tenses, starting to realize what Lucius had intended for him. The vampire at his feet smiles at him, a slow creeping thing that makes Harry tense in how loving it appears.

  “I’d only recently started searching for a child, when I came across a car driving on a lonely road. It was a dark, starless night, and there you were in the back. Eyes so vibrant in a face so young. I ran in front of the car, your parents swerved to avoid me, crashing into a light pole.”

  He pauses to take a breath, and Harry feels his hands shaking, he knows what comes next, knows he won’t like it.. He tucks his shaking hands in between his thighs, as Lucius begins speaking once again.

  “Their deaths were relatively painless, if it makes you feel better. I drained them dry, and then I moved onto you. You were perfect, young enough that you wouldn’t remember their deaths, young enough that I could still raise you as my own.”

  Harry feels a flash of white hot fury, and the words are tumbling out of his mouth before he can stop them.

  “You were wrong.”

  Silver eyes peer at him confusedly, “Wrong?”

  He towers over Lucius, clenching his fists, and he’s so angry, his previous pity for the man seems to have disappeared.

  “About me being too young to remember. I may not remember everything, but enough lingered in my mind. Enough for me to know that you’re a fucking liar, who’s full of shit. There was nothing ‘painless’ about their deaths.”

  He reels back as if slapped, and Harry feels a sort of satisfaction with the abrupt movement.

  “I...I didn’t know.”

  There’s a brief pause while Lucius sits in silence, possibly reliving that night in his head, trying to make sense of what he’s just heard. Harry lowers himself back into the chair, his hands falling to rest in his lap. They’re not shaking anymore, and Harry is grateful. His emotions keep shifting too fast for him to make sense of them, feeling sorrow, fear, shock, pity, and fury in such a short span of time was giving him an emotional whiplash.

  He knows enough of what happens next, the rest of this particular story having come from his Godfather’s mouth.

  “I could sense another vampire approaching, so I gave you the scar above your brow,” he reaches up one hand caressing the thin scar as Harry presses against the chair to avoid Lucius’ hand, “It was meant to be a way to find you, after all, not many people have a scar like yours. The intention was always to find you, to take you back with me, it just took a bit longer than expected.” Harry’s mind reels, trying to process the fact that he’d been branded all because a man’s family was torn apart. That he had become this creature, because of one man’s desperate aching loneliness.

  It’s almost sad.

  Almost.

  Lucius smiles wryly as he continues speaking, and Harry wants to drown him out, but this is-these are the answers he’s been searching for. He wants to know, wants t know why, wants to know how, but he’s scared. Once he knows, once he has his answers, where does he go from there? Nothing will ever be the same, things have already shifted as it is. He feels like a shaken soda can, just ready to burst.

  His vision blurs, and he blinks, refocusing on the sound of Lucius’ voice. He speaks of finding Harry, of finding a house saturated in the scent of his blood.

  Harry blinks, swallowing roughly ashe understands the quiet sadness Lucius’ voice had taken. His fist tighten momentarily, before he closes his eyes letting the tension ease from his body. When he opens them, he sees Tom scrutinizing him, and Harry remembers that he’s never told Tom about his homelife. He never told anyone in life, it was just a trait that had carried on into his afterlife. A silence held even in death.

  Lucius tells him of the change, tells him of leaving him in a house so he would be safe while he underwent his transformation. Tells him of a fight with the same vampire that interrupted his initial abduction. Returning too late to find that Harry had already left. That harry wa already too far away to track.

  The story mostly ends there. Harry disappeared, and Lucius searched for months, but could never find a trace of the boy who had so easily become invisible.

  “Now what?”

  His voice is grim, he has had a whole unfortunate life placed in his lap, a tale of sadness and loneliness placed in his hands like a bright aching star. A pain that he will carry with him for the rest of his afterlife.

  Tom moves away from the wall he’d been leaning against, placing a hand on Harry’s shoulder. His grip is light, but present, and Harry feels a small semblance of comfort from the touch.

  “Well,” Tom says, “That is up to you to decide.”

  Harry looks up at Tom, and a part of him knows what must come next. It seems to him the only solution, yet…

  Harry sighs, “I just have one question from you Lucius.”

  The blond is silent, silver eyes curious.

  “Have you taken any other children? Let me rephrase-do you have anyone relying on you?”

  And suddenly it seems the blond has caught on, but he doesn’t run. Doesn’t try to escape or plead for his life. There’s an acceptance in his eyes when he speaks, softly, quietly.

  “No.”

  This time Harry stands, Tom’s hand falling off his shoulder. Lucius’ head rises, so as to maintain eye contact with Harry. Harry’s hands fall to res on the sides of Lucius’ head.

  “Do you have anything else to say?”

  Lucius smiles, a small grim thing.

  “I fear nothing I will say will resonate well with you.”

 “Still,” Harry says, “It doesn’t matter what I feel when these are your final words.”

  Lucius shakes his head, “No, it would be best if things ended like this. I find myself content with how things are.”

  “I hope you find your wife, wherever you go after this.”

  Lucius’ smiles, hope shining in his eyes, “I hope so too.”

  Lucius closes his eyes, and with a crunch Harry separates his head from his shoulders. The sound sends an uncomfortable chil down his spine, and he closes his eyes so he can’t see the body fall.

  He feels arms wrap around his waist, a chin resting on his shoulder as Tom hold him. There’s satisfaction in his eyes, and Harry focuses on that, focuses on the love rather than the fear. When he turns to stare at the head in his hands, he finds himself numb. Dead eyes stare into him, and Harry eases himself out of Tom’s arms to rest the head on the ground. Harry turns into Tom’s arms, feeling emotion flood back, swift and strong and drowning. He feels the prick of tears and presses his face into Tom’s throat.

  They do not leave the room for a long time.

 

   They’re standing in Tom’s bedroom, the lights are off, but the curtains are cracked open enough that a strip of moonlight shines through. Tom’s eyes shine bright where the light hits them,

  “We’re immortals, you and I,” Tom says it with a smile, a secretive twist of his lips. A shiver rolls down Harry’s spine, but he takes Tom’s hand nonetheless. He’s accepted that there’s a darkness in Tom, the darkness hiding in himself, born from fear and hatred and abandonment. He’s accepted the darkness in himself, but he also knows that darkness cannot exist without light. He has his bitterness and regret and hate, but he also has joy and love and happiness.

  Tom presses a kiss against his hand, “You know,” he begins, “A wise man once said ‘Kill one man, and you are a murderer. Kill millions of men, and you are a conqueror. Kill them all, and you are a god’”

  Harry ponders over this, turning the quote over in his head, wondering what it means for him.

  “However,” and Tom smiles, a crooked thing, “Gods are overrated.”

**Author's Note:**

> So, this has been a monster of a fic, I'm still so shook that I actually finished it. I just. I'm honestly on the verge of tears I'm so proud of myself.


End file.
